


To Kill a King

by growlery



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Theatre, Ensemble Cast, F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-14
Updated: 2015-06-14
Packaged: 2018-03-30 19:59:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3949750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/growlery/pseuds/growlery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which the 100 are putting on a show, and Lincoln from the rival theatre group across town decides to audition.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Kill a King

**Author's Note:**

> [yasmin](http://naessas.tumblr.com) is just as responsible for this as I am, we yelled about it together and like all of the good bits are her. <3 you darling.

The thing is, _To Kill a King_ is Bellamy’s whole heart and soul. He spent four months on the script before Octavia even got to look at it, and it was another three before Clarke was allowed near it with her red producer’s pen. It’s everything to him. 

“I know,” Clarke says, “which is exactly why you shouldn’t get the lead.”

Bellamy glowers. He doesn’t even want it, not really, but this is- this is _his_ story, and it’s hard in a way he never anticipated to have to give it to someone else. 

“You wouldn’t do it justice,” Clarke tells him, not unkindly. “You’re too close to it.”

“Clarke,” Bellamy says, and Clarke looks at him, and Clarke does that thing where she sort of raises her eyebrows and presses her lips together, and Bellamy sighs. “We’ll set up auditions.”

Clarke grins. “We’ll set up auditions.”

*

Lincoln sees the poster on his way out of Polis, his usual for a pre-rehearsal caffeine run. It’s advertising auditions for a show, and there’s the unmistakable logo of The 100 in the bottom left corner. It’s pretty ballsy of them to put it up here, on what is unofficially but no less explicitly _their turf_ , and Lincoln should probably report it to Anya. 

What he does is pull off a strip with the details on it, tuck it into his pocket, and tear the poster down off the wall. He’s totally doing his bit for the team. 

*

They run auditions for the female lead first, even though it’s pretty much a formality. Everyone knows it’s going to be Octavia. Not because she’s Bellamy’s sister, or because she just always gets the lead, or any bullshit like that. But because by the time Octavia’s done, there isn’t a dry eye in the audience, even with Bellamy sitting grumpily at the back. (Maybe especially because of Bellamy.)

“She’s wonderful,” Jasper sighs, and Monty pats his shoulder solemnly. 

“And we’re done,” Clarke says, shuffling her sheets around. “Now for the guys.”

There are a few good performances, and more than a few clunkers, and then also Finn, who looks right at Clarke as he reads the monologue they sent out. There’s a tense, nervous silence when he’s done. 

“Still as much of a pompous ass as when you kicked him out,” Raven mutters, after a minute, and Clarke’s answering smile is relieved. 

Miller brings the next guy out onto the stage, and Clarke frowns. “Isn’t that guy a Grounder?”

Raven snorts. “Says the girl who’s _dating_ a Grounder.”

“Lexa and I are not dating,” Clarke says, but her cheeks are far too pink, and before Raven can say anything else she calls out, “Yes, hi, hello, what’s your name?”

“Lincoln,” the guy says, and Clarke definitely recognises him; he’s one of Indra’s, a quiet, constant presence in the background of the Grounders’ shows. She presses her lips together. 

Not even a minute later, her mouth drops open. 

“If this is them sending in a spy,” Wells says, leaning forward to squeeze her shoulder, “they’re _good_.”

“If this is them sending in a spy,” Clarke whisper-hisses, “I’m not sure I care.”

She underlines Lincoln’s name twice, then circles it just for good measure, and pointedly ignores Raven’s laughter in her ear. 

“Um, thank you,” Clarke says, into the sudden silence. “Next?”

*

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Bellamy says, “he’s a _Grounder_.”

“You were there, Bellamy,” Wells reminds him. Clarke was supposed to deal with this, but Clarke is a coward, and Wells had given in far too easily when she’d widened her eyes at him. “You saw how good he was. You know we need him.”

“He was all right,” Bellamy says grudgingly, and Wells looks heavenwards, and Octavia says, “He was _amazing_ ,” with something like awe in her eyes. 

Bellamy’s gaze flicks to her, and he either looks betrayed or he’s having an epiphany, Wells can’t really tell. Bellamy’s no good at hiding his emotions, but that doesn’t make him easier to read. 

“If we don’t call him back to read with Octavia, we’ll have to bring in Finn in his place,” Wells says, and doesn’t look at Raven. Bellamy does, though, and now Wells can definitely tell – that’s guilt on his face, pulling down the corners of his mouth. 

Wells waits. 

“Fine,” Bellamy mutters, “but I’m sitting in on it.”

*

Octavia peeks out from behind the curtain. Clarke and Bellamy are still squabbling, and everyone else has disappeared for a get-food-and-caffeine-while-they’re-distracted break. Octavia sighs. 

“I want to say they’ll be done soon,” she says, “but I know better than to give false hope.”

Lincoln doesn’t smile back at her. He doesn’t say anything, either, has barely said three words since he showed up for his callback an hour ago, and Octavia tries to ignore the sinking feeling in her stomach. She had _such_ a good feeling about him, but if they don’t click, that’s kind of a dealbreaker. 

Clarke and Bellamy do eventually stop arguing, or maybe Raven just got fed up and dragged them away. Octavia can’t see into the audience from her position on the stage, has to squint against the lights on them. She should talk to Miller about that. After. After they’re done. 

She looks at Lincoln, who’s taken the seat opposite her, turned away from her just slightly, hands resting on his knees. Octavia bites her lip, looks away. She’s not nervous. That would be ridiculous. She’s _not_ nervous. 

“Whenever you’re ready,” Wells calls out, encouraging. 

Lincoln looks at her. It’s her line first, and for just a moment, she can’t remember for the life of her what it is. 

She drags her gaze away, squeezes her eyes shut, and speaks. There’s a pause, heavy and thick, before Lincoln responds, his voice vibrating in the air between them. 

Octavia’s gaze snaps up, locks onto him, and she’s leaning in closer to spit her next line before she’s really conscious of doing it. Lincoln smirks, and something changes in the air between them, something shifts, and it doesn’t let up until Octavia wrenches out her last line. 

And that’s it, that’s the end, but her body doesn’t seem to have got the message because her heart is still pounding and her breathing is ragged. 

There’s a beat, and then another, and then what sounds like the entire crew clapping and cheering. She thinks she might hear Jasper crying. 

Lincoln smiles at her. Octavia flushes. 

“Well, that could’ve gone worse,” she says, light as she can manage, and Lincoln shakes his head, makes a noise like huffed laughter. Octavia is _thrilled_. 

Bellamy’s waiting for them when they get offstage, arms folded across his chest. Octavia raises an eyebrow. Bellamy scowls. 

“You’ve got the part,” he says to Lincoln, and Octavia does him the kindness of waiting until he’s stalked backstage – which is still within hearing range – to cheer.

*

“You’re late,” Anya says. 

Everyone is staring at Lincoln. Indra is glaring at him. He blinks, and swallows, and does his best not to look perturbed. 

“My shift at the bar overran,” he says. “I brought doughnuts as penance.”

He holds them out to her – they’re all peanut butter, her favourite – but Anya isn’t easily swayed. 

“You don’t work on Thursdays.”

“I do now. I picked up a few extra shifts,” he says, and it’s a lie and it’s not, and he can’t shift the realisation that he moved automatically into his acting stance. “Money’s been tight.”

Anya’s face changes minutely. Lincoln relaxes. 

“You should’ve said,” she says, “we’d have figured something out.”

“I know,” he says, “I didn’t want to be an inconvenience, though I see I’ve already fucked that up.” He shrugs a self-deprecating shrug and gets a scatter of laughter for his trouble. “What did I miss?”

*

“Drink every time there’s a reference to the Aeneid,” Monty says, and Jasper scoffs. 

“Waterfall through Octavia’s monologues, come on.”

“Okay, yeah,” Monty concedes, scribbling it down on his copy of the script. He crossed out the title, replaced it with _Tequila King_. “That’ll get us fucked a lot quicker.”

“Nobody’s getting fucked on my stage,” Miller yells from somewhere on the other side of the curtain, and both of them jump. 

“How does he _always know_ ,” Monty mutters. “The dude must have super hearing or something.”

Jasper smirks. “Only where you and fucking are concerned.”

“That joke’s getting kind of old, you know,” Monty says, but he’s smiling, a tiny helpless thing that only makes Jasper look more smug. “Which, a shot for every moment of unnecessary sexual tension, two if it’s blatantly one-sided.”

*

“What are you doing here,” Raven says flatly. “Clarke, we talked about this, three feet away from the stage at all times.”

Clarke lowers her paintbrush, chagrined. “I’m helping,” she tries, and Raven says, “You’re micro-managing,” and, “Seriously, Clarke, don’t make me get Wells.”

Clarke huffs, but she gives the paintbrush back to Monroe without being physically forced to, which is a nice change. 

Bellamy smirks at her, and Clarke says, “Oh, fuck off, I can’t believe you told on me.”

“What goes around,” Bellamy says, and Clarke opens her mouth in the way she does right before she’s about to get self-righteous. Bellamy can never resist launching into an epic, heartfelt speech in return, and everyone stops what they’re doing and clusters around to watch because Bellamy is sort of beautiful when he’s passionate and, seriously, nobody’s got time for that. 

“Three feet, Clarke,” Raven barks. She points her cane at Clarke until she starts stepping away, and then smiles sweetly. “Now go back to doing your actual job, and let me do mine.”

Bellamy laughs softly, but when Raven quirks a brow at him, just shakes his head. “I was gonna ask, actually,” he says, “what were you thinking for the set-up? Because I have some ideas.”

“Of course you do,” Raven says, but she doesn’t actually mind, because Bellamy’s suggestions really are just suggestions, and he only gets a little bit huffy when she tells him his artistic vision is physically impossible for a mere mortal to rig. 

*

Atom breaks off in the middle of his line to hiss, “Enemy approaching.”

Octavia looks around, alarmed, only to see that Lexa’s just walked in, looking as coolly disinterested as ever, and Clarke’s jumped up out of her seat. 

“What are you doing here?” she asks, clearly trying not to sound flustered. Octavia coughs. Maybe she should offer Clarke acting lessons. 

“I was just passing through,” Lexa says, and holds up a brown paper bag. “I haven’t seen you in a while, so I decided to bring you lunch.”

“A likely story,” Atom mutters, his tiara flashing as he turns pointedly away from the audience. 

Octavia just shakes her head. Indra lives around the corner from her, and they run the same route in the morning a lot; Octavia’s not told anyone yet, but she thinks this rivalry’s kind of silly. After all, Lincoln’s a Grounder, and he’s, well. He’s _Lincoln_. 

Speaking of Lincoln, he seems to have disappeared. Octavia frowns; she didn’t even notice him leaving. He’s probably just gone to the bathroom, though. He’ll be back soon. 

“Back to it, everyone,” Wells calls out, casting a dubious glance in Lexa’s direction, but there’s a pretty much equal chance of it being because of the potentially nefarious motivation behind her interest in his best friend as because of the disturbance she’s causing his production. 

Clarke’s still flushed. “Don’t even think about trying to steal our secrets,” she warns Lexa. 

“Please,” Lexa says, in the tone of someone who’s had this argument many times before, “like there’s anything we could learn from a bunch of amateurs.” 

Clarke scowls back at her, but at least her blush is starting to fade. 

Despite Wells’s best efforts, rehearsal sort of breaks down with Lexa sitting in the audience, even though she barely looks over at the stage, barely looks away from the back of Clarke’s head. Beside her, Wells looks incredibly long-suffering. 

“Guess we’re taking a break, everyone,” he says, eventually, “see you all in half an hour.”

Octavia bumps into Lincoln on her way out of the theatre, nearly trips over where he’s hovering just out of sight of the stage. He catches her easily, though, makes sure she’s steady on her feet again before he lets go. 

“You chose the right time for a break,” she says, smiling at him, “we’ve got half an hour ’til we have to be back.” And then, taking a deep breath, she adds, “Wanna get lunch? I know a great place just around the corner.”

Lincoln smiles back at her, and it’s like the motherfucking sun, or something, Octavia doesn’t know. Bellamy’s the one who’s good with words. 

“That’d be great,” Lincoln says, holding an arm out to gesture for her to lead the way. She takes it instead, grinning hopefully at him, and he doesn’t shrug her off, just smiles back. 

*

Lincoln’s lost his sketchbook. He had it when he was with the Grounders, he had it when he stopped in at Polis on his way there, and he definitely had it when he was running lines with Octavia. He drew her, mid-monologue, rubbed it out and started over five times. 

It has to be on The 100’s set, is the point. There’ll probably still be people in the theatre; he can probably get back in; it’ll probably be fine. 

The doors are open when he gets there, and Lincoln is relieved for the split-second it takes him to spot Raven leaning against the stage, flicking through his sketchbook. 

“Oh, hey,” Raven says, looking up at him. “This is yours, right?”

“Yeah,” Lincoln says. He knows when it’s worth a lie. 

“These are good,” Raven says, going back to flicking through the pages. “That backdrop is better than anything Monty’s been able to make up. I mean, he’s a genius, but he’s no artist.”

“I work on sets, usually,” Lincoln says, before he can think about it, and Raven laughs a little, and then she laughs a _lot_ , and then she says, “It’s really cute how you think we didn’t know, Grounder.”

Before Lincoln can say anything, Raven’s eyebrows climb all the way into her hairline. Lincoln knows exactly which pages she’s found. She looks up at him for a moment, narrows her eyes just slightly, and then looks back down again. 

Lincoln exhales. 

*

“This is a miscarriage of justice,” Clarke pronounces, “how come Lincoln gets to work on the stage and I don’t?”

“I like him better than you,” Raven says absentmindedly, and Clarke scowls. She’s exactly three feet away, but Raven seems too preoccupied with the background Lincoln is sketching to notice. 

Clarke takes a cautious step forward. Raven’s head snaps around, her eyebrows up, and Clarke throws up her hands in defeat. 

“Wells,” she asks, plopping into the seat next to him, “am I bossy?” 

Wells laughs for a full minute. Clarke scowls back at him, waiting for him to calm down. 

“Why are we still friends, exactly?”

“All the dirt we have on each other,” Wells reminds her, still biting back a grin. “But fucking duh, Clarke, you’re bossy. You’re the boss. You just have to remember you’re not the only one. Absolute power corrupts absolutely, and all that.”

Clarke sighs. “I just wanna help,” she says, and Wells’s smile becomes something more genuine, less amused at her expense and more just amused. 

“Which you can do,” he says, one arm reaching out to pat her shoulder, rest around the curve of it, “by trusting Raven to do her job.”

Clarke sighs again, but softer, this time, and she leans into Wells’s side to watch the rehearsal without putting up any more of a fuss. Wells calls out the occasional direction, but for the most part, it’s just kind of a treat to watch them perform, everything so close to coming together. 

“Am I a bad person,” Clarke asks quietly, “for wishing Bellamy had given Lincoln and Octavia’s characters a scene where they kiss?”

“Yes,” Wells says, just as quiet, but she’s known him long enough to hear the laughter in his voice. “That chemistry, though.”

“Right?” Clarke says, shaking her head. “They’re both just such good actors.”

Wells bursts out laughing again, silent, helpless jerks that wrack his entire body, and when Clarke hisses, “ _What_?” at him, he only laughs harder. 

*

Lincoln doesn’t show up for the pre-show rehearsal. 

“We have to find him,” Octavia says. 

“We have his number,” Wells points out, “has anybody tried calling him?”

“We _have to find him_ ,” Octavia repeats, and Wells just massages his temple. Actors, seriously, he does not get paid enough for this. 

“We will,” Clarke promises her. “When was the last time anyone saw him?”

“He stayed late to work on sets yesterday,” Harper says, and Miller nods confirmation. “He helped me test the lighting.”

“If he isn’t literally dead in a ditch somewhere,” Bellamy growls, “I’m going to kill him.”

One hand still on the side of his head, Wells gets out his phone and fires off a quick text. 

“He was here for ages,” Monty says. “If this is a set-up, he got kind of over-invested.”

“It’s not a set-up,” Octavia snaps. “Lincoln wouldn’t do that to us.”

“Lincoln didn’t do that to us,” Wells says, helpfully, “Lexa locked him in a closet for joining up with the enemy.”

Everyone’s head snaps around to stare at him. He waves his phone right back. 

Half an hour later, they storm the Grounders’ theatre. 

(Okay, it’s more like they all pour into the building at once, on Bellamy’s signal, but Wells has to be allowed to be dramatic _too_ every once in a while.

(And, okay, it turns out that ‘locked in a closet’ is sort of a generous description of the way Lincoln’s sitting on the ground between a glittery jacket and a fake bear suit, sketching, but Octavia still pulls him to his feet like she’s rescuing a fallen soldier. 

“I knew you’d find me,” Lincoln says, smiling wide and bright, and Octavia pulls him in close by the hand she’s still holding and kisses him. 

Wells just sighs deeply. Actors, seriously.))


End file.
